The Broken Road
by Crystal Sampson
Summary: "It's not even like that. It's not about sex or love or kissing or whatever it is you look for in a pickup poem. This one was about missing someone so much your life feels like it might end."


**Disclaimer:** Not mine. If you recognize it, I didn't make it. I do not own any piece of Supernatural. Not at all. Although how cool would it be if we found out some super-secret dorky thing Dean does? It all belongs to Kripke et. al. I'm just borrowing for a minute.

* * *

Dean lay sprawled across the motel bed in his boxers. It was almost a hundred degrees outside and the air conditioner had crapped out last night so being insider only offered the relative luxury of unventilated shade. He was sweating and the sheets were sticking to his skin. Fuck New Mexico. They were headed north next. Dean didn't care where, just somewhere less hot. Preferably somewhere with actual cold water.

Across the room, Sam was typing furiously at his keyboard. Dean had a brief moment of curiosity over what he was working on, but was feeling far too apathetic in this heat to actually raise his head and investigate. Instead, he stared up at the ceiling, listening to the near constant clicking of the keys.

It took five minutes before Dean could summon the energy to sit up. Sam was bent over his keyboard, grinning. For a minute Dean considered letting it go and flopping back over, but no one could say he wasn't curious by nature.

"What are you doing?" He asked. "Found us another case already?"

Sam spared Dean half a glance before returning to his typing. Did he know how freaky it was that he could do that; type and look at Dean at the same time? It weird. Sam's eyes might see him, but his brain was somewhere else entirely. Not Dean. Dean had to watch the screen. He'd only just graduated from watching his fingers on the keyboard.

Nerd.

Sam didn't show any signs of slowing. Finally Dean said, "Earth to Sam." He chucked the nearest thing he could find, which happened to be his stuffed-with-rocks pillow. It hit Sam square in the head. "What?" he snapped as he finished another sentence then actually looked up at Dean.

"Dude, what are you doing? You're in the zone over there."

Sam frowned down at his computer. "I was just answering an email. An old school friend messaged me."

"About what?"

"Quite possibly none of your business," Sam said. His tone was sassy and defiant. Dean didn't appreciate when his little brother thought he could be sassy. He knew exactly what buttons to push to stop that.

"Awe. Come on," Dean whined. "Wittle Sammy got a secwet?" This might have had more of an impact if Dean had actually had the willpower to get up and look over Sam's shoulder, or otherwise make himself a pain in Sam's neck, but seemed to annoy Sam all the same.

"Not funny. It's nothing bad."

"Then you don't mind sharing," Dean said, pointing out the logical conclusion.

Sam shrugged, apparently resigning himself to Dean's childish behavior. "One of our old professors passed away. Josh was his research assistant and has been helping them clean out the office. He found one of my old papers and was having a laugh."

"One of your old papers?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah. You know. Those things you write for class. Or that you made me write for your class."

Dean waved this comment off. "Not my fault the teacher couldn't read my handwriting."

"Sure," Sam said, turning his attention back to the computer to turn it off.

"What was it?"

"Just an old English assignment. Pick a poem. Analyze it." Sam shrugged. "Normal Junior comp sort of thing."

"Oh," Dean said, drawing out the syllable. "So it's a love poem. That's why you didn't want to say. What'd you pick? A pretty sonnet Jess used to woo you?"

"That's not how it worked at all, Dean." Sam was sounding exasperated at this point. Dean was having enough fun to forget that he was sweating in uncomfortable places.

"So it was Shakespeare," he said. Trust Sam to pick something that nerdy.

"No, it wasn't Shakespeare."

"Sam," Dean said. "Tell me it wasn't some of that pine fresh Hallmark crap." Sam was resolutely not looking at Dean. "Dear God, you did didn't you. Otherwise you wouldn't be embarrassed about it."

"Dean," Sam whined. Dean crossed his arms and waited. Sam huffed. "Fine. Dante Winters's _Broken Road_."

Dean blinked all playfulness dropping from his attitude. If Sam had wanted he could have knocked him over with a look. "Who?" Dean asked stupidly, desperately hoping he'd misheard the name. It had to be a coincidence.

Sam misinterpreted his tone. He must have thought Dean was totally clueless because he clarified. "Dante Winters. One of those internet recluse types. I brought it in because I liked it and it wasn't one we had studied that semester. I knew you'd never know who it was and then you'd give me crap."

"Never heard of him," Dean managed to choke out. He even managed to shrug. "Any good?"

Sam gave him a strange look and Dean snapped back to the conversation at hand. "You want to know if a poet is any good? You, the mighty Dean Winchester?"

Dean smirked. "Hell yeah. Gotta know what will impress the chicks. Figure if it impresses you, same difference."

Sam shook his head. "It's not even like that. It's not about sex or love or kissing or whatever it is you look for in a pickup poem." Sam made a face as though just contemplating this made him sick. "This one was about missing someone so much your life feels like it might end."

"Sounds depressing," Dean said.

"I don't know. It was just something I liked at the time. Felt relevant then."

Sam was staring at the blank computer screen, avoiding Dean's eye. It's a good thing because Dean was sitting there with his mouth hanging open. Hell yeah it was relevant. It had been about Sam.

"Whatever, sounds dull." Dean let himself flop back down across the bed.

Sam stood and stretched. "I'm going to take a shower. We should head out soon. Don't want the cops getting too interested in us after that business last night."

Dean grunted. "Fine by me. Sooner we find somewhere with air conditioning, the better."

The only response he got was the click of the bathroom door latching.

Dean scowled up at the ceiling, trying to figure out how he'd gotten into this mess. How had Sam found Dante Winters? He wasn't even all that good. It's not like his professor would have talked about any of his poems.

Dante Winters was a stupid joke. Dean had invented Dante Winters as a sort of gag with his buddies in one of the towns they had passed through. Sam had still been in school, but was close to graduating. Dean had been out long enough that most of the guys his age were either working or in college. He'd fallen in with a group that went to the local community college and drank in his regular bar on the weekends.

It was stupid. They'd been poking fun of one their number, a small boy by the name of Eliot, who was suffering through a class on postmodern poetry. After reading some of his assignments aloud to the group, they had begun the prerequisite mocking, dirty jokes included.

That's when Dean had opened his fat mouth and joked that anyone could be a poet, especially in the era of the newly dawning internet craze. This was back when most people only had dialup and chatrooms were about the most exciting thing you got. He'd claimed with a little artful bullshit, he could set himself up as a respected poet. The others had laughed, but Dean put money on it. He knew that it was less about talent, at least on the internet, and more about being talked about.

If there was one thing Dean was good at, it was working a crowd.

Plus, he'd bet Garry twenty bucks that he couldn't build a website that would pass muster. Goaded into proving his tech skills, Garry had pulled off a decent looking page for the time. They'd found a place to host it and then ran with it.

Dean had introduced himself in several forums as Dante Winters, poet extraordinaire on the verge of breaking through. He'd done a bit of sweet talking, fortunately as charming online as he was in real life. Three well placed flirts, a quick flex of his bull shit muscles, and several flattered graduate TA's later, he'd generated enough conversation to consider the experiment a success. He won three hundred dollars off the lot, less the twenty he owed Garry for the website.

Dean had not expected to actually be good at it. He wasn't award winning poet good, but decent enough. He'd actually heard back from a couple of the grad professors encouraging him to continue with some helpful advice and a few notes of encouragement. Far more than he'd expected.

Writing became a thing he did to fill up the empty time when he wasn't hunting or with Sammy. He'd thrown them up on the internet because he could. He figured if any of the guys still checked the site, they'd get a kick out of it.

Then Sam had left and he was at a loss and he'd simply filled up as much of the empty space as he could so he didn't notice the absence as much.

He'd moved over to a freebie site when things got more streamlined and the internet actually started looking like a thing, but he'd never gone any farther. The last thing he wanted was a credit card attached that someone might trace back to him.

He had no idea when Sam had found Dante Winters. He was dying to ask, but found himself reluctant. He had no desire to admit to his baby brother that he wrote poetry. He had a reputation to maintain after all. This whole thing had the makings of an epic disaster.

In the next room, Sam was muttering under his breath and shuffling around the bathroom. Dean thought he might be shaving, but decided he had used up his curiosity for the day. It might make him sweat more.

Finally, unable to put it off any longer, Dean shouted towards the closed door. "Come on princess. Your hair's fine. I want my shower."

"Bite me!" Was Sam's response. "Just chill for like five minutes."

"Whatever," Dean muttered.

Finally. Sam emerged. Dean was up and across the room before Sam had time to blink. Another second and the bathroom door was closed and Dean was blissfully ensconced in almost cool water.

Dean would blame Sam's casual mention for what happened next. He had been preoccupied, going back through some of the old things he had written and cobbling together a few more in the hours when Sam was asleep or making food runs.

That was the only reason Dean had even pulled out the old notebook. It's the only reason it had been anywhere it could fall out to be discovered by nosy little brothers three weeks later as they were bailing from another middle of nowhere town.

Dean was staring at the coffee maker wishing he could make it brew faster with just the power of his mind. Why couldn't Sam have had a useful psychic power? Dean would have put that one to good use. Instead, he was watching as the ancient thing dripped coffee into the carafe drop by painfully slow drop.

Sam has gone out to the Impala to load their things. They planned to caffeinate then hit the road. Another late night, another monster vanquished, another town in the rearview mirror. When his brother came stomping back in, Dean turned to look at him.

Sam tossed a black and white composition book on the bed between them. Dean winced. Sam looked annoyed. "I thought you said you didn't know who Dante Winters was," he said. Dean can hear the caution in his voice, like he's trying to puzzle something out and hasn't quite gotten to the answer but suspects he's not going to like whatever conclusion he finds.

"Not a clue." Dean was still hoping he could play this off in some way.

"Dean, this notebook is full of his poems." Sam's tone was exasperated. "It's in your handwriting."

"Yeah, so?"

"Since when do you hoard poetry? And don't give me the 'it's to pick up chicks' thing again. You've got editing notes…" Sam trailed off and Dean watched his eyes flick back to the notebook laying on the bed between them.

Dean saw the exact moment Sam realized what that notebook meant. He saw the slight widening of his eyes and the little furrow between his eyebrows.

"Wait, you're Dante Winters?" The words dripped with disbelief and a little laugh escaped him. He looked at Dean with wide eyes. Dean was mortified. He snatched the notebook up and stormed out of the room. He was half tempted to leave Sam's sorry ass there at the motel. Before he reached the car, Sam was running after him.

"Dean, wait!" Sam jogged to catch up and grabbed his arm, firm but not hard. "Dean!" Sam spun Dean around.

Dean crossed his arms and adopted his look of imminent wrath. He was not having this conversation with his brother. No way. Not ever.

"Look, man. It just surprised me is all. Are you really him?"

Dean's frown deepened. Maybe he should go for 'doom is nigh' rather 'imminent wrath.' Sam didn't seem to be getting the message.

"All that time and I never knew," Sam said. He shook head. "When did you even have time to write?"

Why the fuck was Sam not understanding that they were not going to talk about this. He contemplated breaking Sam's hold. He could do it. All it would take would be a sharp jerk downwards with his arm and he'd be free. Dean remained stony and silent.

That was fine. Sam had enough words for both of them. "You know," he said. "I kept a copy of _Broken Road_. It's in my wallet." Wisely, Sam did not release Dean to try and retrieve his wallet from his pocket. He at least had enough sense to realize that Dean would bolt the minute he let go. "I kept it because it's exactly what the bus ride to California was like."

Dean's frown softened a little and dammit, he just couldn't quite keep up his scowl. But he felt things getting mushy around the edges. He shrugged and tried to shake off Sam's hand. He didn't use the sharp motion he'd been contemplating, but he was no less firm. Sam let his hand fall from Dean's arm.

Dean turned away. He couldn't look at Sam. That poem. That short little piece of nothing was supposed to be his unread letter. It was just a way to say everything he couldn't say to Sam at the time. He'd had a few too many drinks and a few too many days cooped up in a motel room without a hunt. Too much time to think and he'd been crawling the walls. Sam wasn't actually supposed to read it. Dean found that now Sam had – or now that he knew Sam had – it felt like something private had been stripped away. He felt raw.

He didn't know what to say to Sam, although he knew Sam was standing there, staring at him. He shrugged.

"It's kinda cool, you know."

Sam said it in an offhand voice.

Dean took a breath and tried to remember whether he wanted to strangle Sam or not. "What," he huffs out. His voice was rough.

"I never knew it was you, and now it makes so much sense. And you," he said. Dean could tell he was grinning. "You're some closet-genius poet." Even without turning around, Dean knew Sam was shrugging in that offhand way he does when he doesn't quite know what to say. "It's kinda cool."

Dean turned back and tried to force a smile. "I told you I was a genius."

Sam rolled his eyes and slouched back against the car. "Whatever. Doesn't seem to make you any more suave."

Dean ignored this. He exuded sexy. They both knew it. "You're just jealous. Girls like a guy who's good with _words_." Dean waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"That's disgusting," Sam said. "You're such a jerk. At least you don't get to call me the sensitive one anymore." His eyes were bright and his smile had lit his face like it hadn't for a while.

"Just get in the car," Dean tried to sound irritated, but he knew Sam could hear the laugh in his voice. "I'm sick of this place. It's time we hit the road."

 _The Broken Road_

By Dante Winters

I blaze a trail down the broken road

Across asphalt cracked jagged and split

I've left ten thousand more miles behind me

Than all the breaths I'll ever take

I have seen more towns in the rear-view mirror

Slept on more pillows, laid in more beds

I've forgotten more faces, more names

Than there've been hours lived in my life.

I've lost more maps than most ever own

And never once have I been found

Because my passengers are old foil wrappers

Cassette tapes and crumpled up papers

I blaze a trail down an old, broken road

Through desserts and forests and towns

I ride through the same empty landscape forever

With a ghost riding shotgun beside me.

* * *

I realized as I was finishing this one that it closely resembled a Sherlock fic I posted earlier this year. Maybe this is just one of those themes that has subconsciously stuck with me. I liked it though, so here it is. Sorry if it feels too repetitive. The idea of Dean being something less macho and hiding it because it's not manly enough just gave me happy feelings.


End file.
